


We're Going Home

by notSuperboi



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Depression, Insanity, Literally based off a phanfic I read like a year ago, M/M, Romanticizing mental illnesses, Sadness, horrible metaphores, i forgot the name but it was g00d, it's his own demise, it's supposed to be that way, mentions of cutting, tw, van gogh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 22:42:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10672275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notSuperboi/pseuds/notSuperboi
Summary: People do the stupidest shit to be happy.Van Gogh drank yellow paint, Ryan would drink, Brendon would think.Indigo man would just paint.





	We're Going Home

Brendon knew a whole lot of things. Most of those things were horrible realistic events in the universe that made him want to crawl in a cave and hide for several years. Other things he knew were life's beautiful metaphors for darkness.  
He knew that they said Van Gogh used to drink yellow paint to make him feel happy. Brendon would waste all the money in the world buying gallons and gallons of paint, but even then he wouldn't think it would help him one bit.  
He would chug it all, make himself a walking sunflower just to see if his wrecked brain was the same color as his horrible shell he hides in. To reach inside and tear open his heart and see if it bleeds yellow. But he's afraid that the only thing anyone would find would be black ink splattered along the inner linings of his broken organ. Red would be chipped and faded, covered by the black as though the paint before represented his wounded soul.  
His brain wouldn't be any better. He imagines the dark colors bleeding from everywhere, no control over how much oozes from every crevice. There would be no telltale sign that any red or yellow was ever there before. Brendon knew that yellow had never touched a single part of his brain. Maybe it had touched his heart at one point. That's why the red is there, to serve as a reminder of what once was and what will never be.  
It made him sick. And exhausted. He felt as though the black paint splattered across his brain had thickened and dripped out of his skull, developing a huge being permanently attached to his body, weighing him down. He wanted it gone, he wanted himself gone. Brendon wasn't an artist, didn't have the pleasure of yellow paint near by. Instead, his yellow paint was the pure company of a good fuck. It used to be the pure company of someone he thought he once loved, someone he thought once loved him.  
It was fine though, Brendon was fine. He would tell himself that everyday he woke up and would try his damnest to ignore the fucking looks his mother would give him. It was all too much when she would yell, yell for anything. Mostly she yelled at him, the youngest. Obscenities that he could never understand with his fog riddled brain would wound up hanging in the air, floating between space and reality because Brendon couldn't bother to listen to hear outraged screaming.  
He had learned long ago that if you just block it out, it gets better. And maybe he wanted all of the world's yellow paint to make himself happy, to make the world happy. But he knew he would always choose to make the world okay again rather than make himself feel better. It was a twisted spiral downwards to his own demise, giving more than he could afford.  
He guessed that if he really did have yellow paint he'd die from drinking too much. An ironic spill, 'boy pronounced dead from drinking the one thing he thought would help him stay alive another day.' The mere thought of it made a sadistic laugh bubble up inside of his ugly and ink splattered chest.  
It made him sick to think of death, to think of how many flaws there are in it. Sometimes Brendon would pretend. Pretend he was happy, pretend Van Gogh was still alive, that Ryan was still with him, that death was just a myth. The last one was a dangerous game, filled with reasons why Brendon ended up in the hospital during Junior year in high school. It was a game of where he would cheat death, jumping from high places to see if it would kill him, cutting an extra and deeper line down his wrist. He doesn't do that anymore, Ryan made him stop.  
Ryan was what Brendon called a beautiful masterpiece. He was sunshine and sunflowers and everything yellow wrapped into one. He was yellow paint. Ryan used to make Brendon happy, now he just makes him sick to the stomach. Brendon thinks that he drank too much of the older man's yellow paint, drained him dry and made himself insane.  
Probably, or maybe Ryan just wasn't yellow. Maybe he was a more bad color. Life was cruel and dark and all Brendon wanted to do was take the most yellow sunflowers and hold them close to his heart, watch them bloom through the madness and darkness of his inky, disgusting organ. Watch love bloom from hate.  
Because people did strange things to become happy, stranger than Van Gogh and his yellow paint. All Brendon wanted was to stay in the same place, rooted to the ground like his wilting sunflowers in his heart. Wanted to stay and wilt as well because there was no point in going on.  
His yellow paint was dry, his sunflowers were wilted, his sunshine was dark, Ryan was gone. It was all one big loop that turned Brendon to insanity. His demons weren't dark and shadowed, they were a certain color that haunted him for life. A vibrant blue that he had only ever seen once.  
They were the eyes of another person. One that Brendon doesn't remember. He only remembers Ryan. To think of it, what was his mother's name? The yellow paint must've clogged his brain, wound tight the coils that turned the cogs. Or it was the pills that made everything foggy and gross. The same pills his mother would shove down his throat. He wished the pills were yellow.  
Not everything was a vibrant pastel that made him happy anymore. Not everything consisted of his consistency of life. Nothing mattered because yellow was just a feeble color that Van Gogh would drink to make himself feel happy when the euphoric feeling of happiness seemed to be just a myth. Without Ryan, it was.  
People do the strangest things to make themselves happy. Van Gogh drank yellow paint, Brendon would bleed himself dry with all the knives stabbed into his brain, the slashes across his heart. They were ugly scars in his body that disfigured his soul. The ink oozed from the wounds, adding to his broken mind.  
People tell him he's insane, Brendon says he just sees things differently. Nutcases like him were more of a genius than anybody, they saw the world in a different perspective. Brendon thinks his perspective could deal with a little more yellow.  
He would bite at the chipped paint, scrape off a new landscape to paint on. The only thing for him to paint with would be black. A dark onyx color, more beautiful than the only black in his heart and brain. Maybe he just wanted yellow. Maybe he just wanted Ryan. Maybe that's why when someone with the same vibrant blue as his demons came up to him and introduced himself as a painter Brendon latched on.  
Maybe it was because someone with the same broken heart understood his broken ramblings about yellow paint and Van Gogh. Maybe because the man was so much like Ryan but so different in every way. Maybe because this man wasn't dark like the world, instead he was a wonderful indigo that had Brendon gasping for breath and drowning from the pure beauty.  
He told the man so, that he was indigo. The man responded with a chuckle at Brendon's hyped antics and sipped from his drink before responding. He told Brendon that he thought the teen was more of a pure gold, shining bright through everything.  
Brendon never thought t before, but maybe the disgusting and random mix of gold and indigo was sort of pretty. Maybe the artist next to him was the most beautiful thing in the world since Ryan. Maybe Brendon can forget Ryan.  
People do dumb shit to make themselves happy. Van Gogh drank yellow paint, Ryan used to drink, Brendon would fantasize about a world far from here. Maybe he wanted to visit Greece with the indigo man. See all the art. But Italy would be better. Maybe France.  
Or maybe they could just visit the inner workings of their minds. See how Brendon's had stopped working, how the brain of the man in front of him was running fast. Take an elevator up to insanity and ride it down to the hatred.  
Brendon could never hate, just love harder. It was a curse filled with yellow paint that made him cry from joy. Brendon could've drank too much yellow paint, it would probably explain the reason why he feels like dying. Or with the artist in front of him, why he feels like flying.

"Do you think that if we tried, we could fly?"

The indigo man gave him a smile, "what's brought this on, paint boy?"

Brendon contemplated if that was an insult or not, "a wonderful thought that had me wondering about wonderful wonders, answer me indigo man."

The artist smiled and Brendon saw the gleam in his eyes. Brendon had sunflowers in his pockets, in his heart. They bloomed for the man.

"I believe we already can, it's more of a feeling than anything else."

"Have you ever felt it?"

"Yes, a long time ago."

Brendon deflated and the man smiled sadly, looking down at the boy, "I think I can feel it again, with you. And I think it not only excites me but terrifies me as well."

Brendon closed his eyes and tried to get the cogs turning through the murky ink in his brain. He felt yellow in his fingertips and vaguely wondered if this is what Van Gogh meant by happiness. By insanity in the pleasure of spoken words of love.

"I feel it too, when I'm here with you."

And it takes all of his will to realize that at the moment, as long as he knew indigo man was existing, he didn't want to die. Is this what romanticizing something horrible feels like? It does feel lonely but he learned to forgive the loneliness.

He looked into the man's eyes and immediately latched on. They were the same color as his deflating demons.

"Indigo man, would you drink yellow paint with me? To be happy."

"People do the strangest things for happiness. I think that if you look in front of you and see what's there, then you'll never truly be happy. You have to search for it. Find what makes you happy."

And Brendon wanted so badly to say, "you do," but he just met the man and didn't even know his name. Or maybe he did and just forgot. No, he'd never forget this man.

"Yes, but yellow paint indigo man, would you drink it for me?"

"It would be my own demise but yes, for you I would."

Brendon hummed, "I would for you too."

Indigo man smirked, "whatever is going on in that little brain of yours, I bet it's magnificent and genius."

"Not really, it's just a mess of black and broken cogs wound tight to the point of breaking."

"You're a strangely poetic man."

"And you paint depressing masterpieces."

"You got me there."

Brendon looked into the man's eyes once more and sighed, "I'm Brendon Urie and I'm utterly insane."

The man reached out a hand and shook Brendon's, shivering at how cold his hands were.

His blue eyes sparkled like Brendon's demons in the night and yellow was suddenly shooting from his chest in flakes of gold and orange. A beautiful sunset mixed with the indigo night sky. Sunflowers were blooming and yellow paint cans were full. Van Gogh was never happy but Brendon could be.

"I'm Dallon Weekes and I think you're just too smart for the world."

Brendon smiled, maybe yellow was gone from him, but it shone bright through the man's blue eyes.

 

He latched himself on because some people do the dumbest shit when they want to be happy.

 

Because Van Gogh drank paint and Brendon saw Dallon.

 

Because he actually believed Dallon loved him.

 

Just like he believed Ryan did too.


End file.
